I raised an eyebrow, gesturing for her to continue.
"First," she held up one finger, tone like a negotiating criminal, "you let me write you into my novel. All of it. The mob stuff. The rich stuff. This is my material now. You're my muse."
I almost laughed out loud. "Deal."
"Second," she raised a second finger, voice dropping lower, eyes gleaming with viciousness, "you said you'd handle my problems, right? Then I want you to throw Gary in a sack and beat the shit out of him. Beat him so bad his own mother won't recognize him."
That caught me off guard. I'd expected jewelry, freedom, or a promise I wouldn't touch her. Instead, she wanted me as her guinea pig and to pulverize some irrelevant scumbag?
A deep, genuinely amused laugh rumbled from my chest.
Interesting. This woman was ten thousand times more entertaining than I'd imagined.
"Deal." I stopped laughing, agreeing easily to her two absurd conditions.
She stuck out her hand like a businesswoman. "Then it's settled, Mr. Volkov."
I didn't shake her hand. I grabbed her wrist, yanked her into my chest, cupped the back of her head, and ran my thumb over her swollen lips.
"Good. Tonight I'll have my lawyer send over thecontract."
"Good," she replied breathlessly, not struggling. "Oh, and the contract doesn't include fucking, right?"
"Of course not. But if you want it, I'm happy to oblige." She rolled her eyes.
My brain was already mapping next steps. Have Sasha draft an NDA immediately. Get her a wardrobe. Introduce her to those old bastards. This would be chaos.
She pushed me off, sat up, and started fixing herself in the mirror.
"So when do I move in with you? Tomorrow?"
I froze. "Move in?"
"Yeah," she slung her bag over her shoulder, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost offensive. "Please don't tell me the mob boss is planning some 'separate residences' fiancé situation. You live in your secret lair, and I take the subway over to clock in every day? That's ridiculous."
I was stunned for a full second.
Me. Nikolai Volkov. Just got lectured on "ridiculous" by a freshly unemployed magazine assistant.
I hadn't felt this caught off guard, this verbally demolished, in years.
Watching her stand there all self-righteous, even a little challenging, a laugh forced its way up from deep in my throat.
Perfect. Excellent.
I looked at her hard, my grin spreading wider.
I suddenly realized that the next year with this woman around was going to be anything but boring.
Chapter Eight
Vivienne
I clutched a cheap cardboard box and kicked open the screeching glass door of Urban Style magazine.
Yesterday felt like some wild fever dream. But right now, it was time to settle scores with these parasites.
The office stank of cheap perfume, printer ozone, and stale coffee beans—a toxic mix that turned my stomach. I marched straight to my desk and slammed the box down hard.
